Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [46]
He didn’t particularly want to know what that meant. Each time he saw the Matre Superior, Uxtal struggled not to reveal his loathing, though she must recognize it on his grayish face. For his own survival, he tried to show just the right amount of fear in her presence, but not too much. He did not grovel—at least he didn’t think so.
After a particularly loud volley of screams came from the new wing, Hellica swept through a doorway and into the laboratory section where the impregnated axlotl tank lay on its chromed table. She enjoyed looking at the single mound of sweating, odorous flesh. The Matre Superior nudged Uxtal roughly enough to knock him off balance, as if he were her comrade in arms. “Such an interesting way to treat the human body, don’t you think? Only suitable for women who are worthy of nothing else.”
Uxtal had not asked where the donor women came from. It was none of his business, and he didn’t want to know. He suspected the whores had captured several of their hated Bene Gesserit rivals out on other planets. Now, that would have been interesting to see! As bloated axlotl tanks, at least these women had gone to their proper place, to be receptacles for offspring. The ideal of a Tleilaxu female . . .
Hellica scowled upon seeing both laboratory assistants tending the one pregnant tank. “Is that project more important than mine? We are in need of our drug—do not delay!”
Both assistants froze. Bowing before her, Uxtal said immediately, “Of course not, Matre Superior. We await your pleasure.”
“My pleasure? What would you know of my pleasure?” She loomed over the little man, regarding him with her predatory gaze. “I wonder if you have the stomach for this work. All the original Masters are dead as punishment for their past crimes. Do not make me add you to that number.”
Crimes? Uxtal didn’t know what the original Tleilaxu had done to the Honored Matres to earn a hatred strong enough to warrant complete extinction. “I only know genetics, Matre Superior. Not politics.” He quickly bowed and scuttled out of her reach. “I am perfectly happy to serve you.”
Her pale eyebrows arched. “Your lot in life is to serve.”
When the past returns to us with all its glory and pain, we don’t know whether to embrace it or to flee.
—DUNCAN IDAHO,
More Than a Mentat
T
he two axlotl tanks in the no-ship’s medical center had once been Bene Gesserit females. Volunteers. Now all that remained of the women were gross mounds of flesh, their arms and legs flabby, their minds completely vacated. They were living wombs, biological factories for the creation of spice.
Teg could not look at them without feeling bleak. The air in the med center smelled of disinfectants, medicinal chemicals, and bitter cinnamon.
The Acolytes’ Manual said, “A defined need leads to a solution.” In the first year of their odyssey, the Tleilaxu Master had revealed how to manufacture melange with axlotl tanks. Knowing what was at stake, two of the refugee women had offered themselves. The Bene Gesserit always did what was necessary, even to this extent.
Years ago on Chapterhouse, Mother Superior Odrade had permitted the creation of axlotl tanks for the Sisterhood’s own ghola experiments. Volunteers were found, females who could serve the order in no better way. Fourteen years ago, his own reborn body had emerged from one of them.
The Bene Gesserit know how to demand sacrifices of us. Somehow they make us want to do it. Teg had defeated many enemies, using his tactical genius to achieve victory after victory for the Sisterhood; his death on Rakis had been the ultimate sacrifice.
Teg continued to look at the axlotl tanks—at these women. These Sisters had also given their lives, but in a different way. And now, thanks to Scytale and his hidden nullentropy capsule, Sheeana needed more tanks.
When studying